"THE
world is old, and all things old within it" We plod a trodden
path. No truth is new to-day, save only that one which as a
mantle covers the face of God, lest we be blinded by the unveiled
glory. How many of earth's departed great, buried out of remembrance,
might have lived to-day in the love of the wise and just, had theirs
but been that perfect quickening which is the breath of his Spirit
upon the heart, the gift that "passeth understanding!" The
world's helpers must first become borrowers of God. The world's
teachers must first learn of him that only wisdom, which cometh not
of books nor jealous cloister cells, but out of the heart of man as
it opens yearningly to the cry of humanity, — the Wisdom of Love.
This alone may challenge a superior mind, prizing truths not merely
for their facts, but for their motives, — motives for which
individuals or great communities either act or suffer, — to explore
with a calm and kindly judgment the spirit of the religion of the
Buddhists; and not its spirit only, but its every look and tone and
motion as well, being so many complex expressions of the religious
character in all its peculiar thoughts and feelings.

"Who,
of himself, can interpret the symbol expressed by the wings of the
air-sylph forming within the case of the caterpillar? Only he who
feels in his own soul the same instinct which impels the horned fly
to leave room in its involucrum for antennæ yet to come." Such
a man knows and feels that the potential works in him even as the
actual works on him. As all the organs of sense are framed for a
correspondent world of sense, so all the organs of the spirit are
framed for a correspondent world of spirit; and though these latter
be not equally developed in us all, yet they surely exist in all;
else how is it that even the ignorant, the depraved, and the cruel
will contemplate the man of unselfish and exalted goodness with
contradictory emotions of pity and respect?

We
are prone to ignore or to condemn that which we do not clearly
understand; and thus it is, and on no better ground, that we deny
that there are influences in the religions of the East to render
their followers wiser, nobler, purer. And yet no one of respectable
intelligence will question that there have been, in all ages,
individual pagans who, by the simplicity of their doctrine and the
purity of their practice, have approached very nearly to the
perfection of the Christian graces; and that they were, if not so
much the better for the religion they had, at least far, far better
than if they had had no religion at all.

It
is not, however, in human nature to approve and admire any course of
life without inquiring into the spirit of the law that regulates it.
Nor may it suffice that the spirit is there, if not likewise the
letter, — that is to say, the practice. The best doctrine may
become the worst, if imperfectly understood, erroneously interpreted,
or superstitiously followed.

In
Egypt, Palestine, Greece, and India, the metaphysical analysis of
Mind had attained its noontide splendor, while as yet experimental
research had hardly dawned. Those ancient mystics did much to promote
intellectual emancipation, by insisting that Thought should not be
imprisoned within the mere outlines of any single dogmatic system;
and they likewise availed, in no feeble measure, to keep alive the
heart in the head, by demanding an impartial reverence for every
attribute of the mind, till, by converting these into symbols to
impress the ignorant and stupid, they came at last to deify them.
Thus, with the uninitiated, their system degenerated into an ignoble
pantheism.

The
renascence of Buddhism sought to eliminate from the arrogant and
impious pantheisms of Egypt, India, and Greece a simple and pure
philosophy, upholding virtue as man's greatest good and highest
reward. It taught that the only object worthy of his noblest
aspirations was to render the soul (itself an emanation from God) fit
to be absorbed back again into the Divine essence from which it
sprang. The single aim, therefore, of pure Buddhism seems to have
been to rouse men to an inward contemplation of the divinity of their
own nature; to fix their thoughts on the spiritual life within as the
only real and true life; to teach them to disregard all earthly
distinctions, conditions, privileges, enjoyments, privations,
sorrows, sufferings; and thus to incite them to continual efforts in
the direction of the highest ideals of patience, purity, self-denial.

Buddhism
cannot be clearly defined by its visible results to-day. There are
more things in that subtile, mystical enigma called in the Pali
Nirwana, in the Birmese Niban, in the Siamese Niphan, than are
dreamed of in our philosophy. With the idea of Niphan in his
theology, it were absurdly false to say the Buddhist has no God. His
Decalogue1 is as plain and imperative as the Christian's:
—

I.
From the meanest insect up to man thou shalt kill no animal
whatsoever.

Whosoever
abstains from these forbidden things is said to "observe Silah";
and whosoever shall faithfully observe Silah, in all his successive
metempsychoses, shall continually increase in virtue and purity,
until at length he shall become worthy to behold God, and hear his
voice; and so he shall obtain Niphan. "Be assiduous in bestowing
alms, in practising virtue, in observing Silah, in performing Bavana,
prayer; and above all in adoring Guadama, the true God. Reverence
likewise his laws and his priests."

Many
have missed seeing what is true and wise in the doctrine of Buddha
because they preferred to observe it from the standpoint and in the
attitude of an antagonist, rather than of an inquirer. To understand
aright the earnest creed and hope of any man, one must be at least
sympathetically en rapport with him, — must be willing to
feel, and to confess within one's self, the germs of those errors
whose growth seems so rank in him. In the humble spirit of this
fellowship of fallibility let us draw as near as we may to the hearts
of these devotees and the heart of their mystery.

My
interesting pupil, the Lady Tâlâp, had invited me to accompany her
to the royal private temple, Watt P'hra Kam, to witness the services
held there on the Buddhist Sabâto, or One-thu-sin. Accordingly we
repaired together to the temple on the day appointed. The day was
young, and the air was cool and fresh; and as we approached the place
of worship, the clustered bells of the pagodas made breezy gushes of
music aloft. One of the court pages, meeting us, inquired our
destination. "The Watt P'hra Këau," I replied. "To
see or to hear?" "Both." And we entered.

On
a floor diamonded with polished brass sat a throng of women, the
élite of Siam. All were robed in pure white, with white silk
scarfs drawn from the left shoulder in careful folds across the bust
and back, and thrown gracefully over the right. A little apart sat
their female slaves, of whom many were inferior to their mistresses
only in social consideration and worldly gear, being their
half-sisters, — children of the same father by a slave mother.

The
women sat in circles, and each displayed her vase of flowers and her
lighted taper before her. In front of all were a number of my younger
pupils, the royal children, in circles also. Close by the altar, on a
low square stool, overlaid with a thin cushion of silk, sat the
high-priest, Chow Khoon Sâh. In his hand he held a concave fan,
lined with pale green silk, the back richly embroidered, jewelled,
and gilt.2 He was draped in a yellow robe, not unlike the
Roman toga, a loose and flowing habit, closed below the waist, but
open from the throat to the girdle, which was simply a band of yellow
cloth, bound tightly. From the shoulders hung two narrow strips, also
yellow, descending over the robe to the feet, and resembling the
scapular worn by certain orders of the Roman Catholic clergy. At his
side was an open watch of gold, the gift of his sovereign. At his
feet sat seventeen disciples, shading their faces with fans less
richly adorned.

We
put off our shoes, — my child and I, — having respect for the
ancient prejudice against them;3 feeling not so much
reverence for the place as for the hearts that worshipped there,
caring to display not so much the love of wisdom as the wisdom of
love; and well were we repaid by the grateful smile of recognition
that greeted us as we entered.

We
sat down cross-legged. No need to hush my boy, — the silence there,
so subduing, checked with its mysterious awe even his inquisitive
young mind. The venerable high-priest sat with his face jealously
covered, lest his eyes should tempt his thoughts to stray. I changed
my position to catch a glimpse of his countenance; he drew his
fan-veil more closely, giving me a quick but gentle half-glance of
remonstrance. Then raising his eyes, with lids nearly closed, he
chanted in an infantile, wailing tone.

That
was the opening prayer. At once the whole congregation raised
themselves on their knees and, all together, prostrated themselves
thrice profoundly, thrice touching the polished brass floor with
their foreheads; and then, with heads bowed and palms folded and eyes
closed, they delivered the responses after the priest, much in the
manner of the English liturgy, first the priest, then the people, and
finally all together. There was no singing, no standing up and
sitting down, no changing of robes or places, no turning the face to
the altar, nor north, nor south, nor east, nor west. All knelt still,
with hands folded straight before them, and eyes strictly, tightly
closed. Indeed, there were faces there that expressed devotion and
piety, the humblest and the purest, as the lips murmured: "O
Thou Eternal One, Thou perfection of Time, Thou truest Truth, Thou
immutable essence of all Change, Thou most excellent radiance of
Mercy, Thou infinite Compassion, Thou Pity, Thou Charity!"

I
lost some of the responses in the simultaneous repetition, and did
but imperfectly comprehend the exhortation that followed, in which
was inculcated the strictest practice of charity in a manner so
pathetic and so gentle as might be wisely imitated by the most
orthodox of Christian priests.

There
was majesty in the humility of those pagan worshippers, and in their
shame of self they were sublime. I leave both the truth and the error
to Him who alone can soar to the bright heights of the one and sound
the dark depths of the other, and take to myself the lesson, to be
read in the shrinking forms and hidden faces of those patient waiters
for a far-off glimmering Light, — the lesson wherefrom I
learn, in thanking God for the light of Christianity, to thank him
for its shadow too, which is Buddhism.

Around
the porches and vestibules of the temple lounged the Amazonian guard,
intent only on irreverent amusement, even in the form of a grotesque
and grim flirtation here and there with the custodians of the temple,
who have charge of the sacred fire that burns before the altar. About
eighty-five years ago this fire went out. It was a calamity of
direful presage, and thereupon all Siam went into a consternation of
mourning. All public spectacles were forbidden until the crime could
be expiated by the appropriate punishment of the wretch to whose
sacrilegious carelessness it was due; nor was the sacred flame
rekindled until the reign of P'hra-Pooti-Yaut-Fa, grandfather of his
late Majesty, when the royal Hall of Audience was destroyed by
lightning. From that fire of heaven it was relighted with joyful
thanksgiving, and so has burned on to this day.

The
lofty throne, on which the priceless P'hra Kau (the Emerald Idol)
blazed in its glory of gold and gems, shone resplendent in the
forenoon light. Everything above, around it, — even the vases of
flowers and the perfumed tapers on the floor, — was reflected as if
by magic in its kaleidoscopic surface, now pensive, pale, and silvery
as with moonlight, now flashing, fantastic, with the party-colored
splendors of a thousand lamps.

The
ceiling was wholly covered with hieroglyphic devices, — luminous
circles and triangles, globes, rings, stars, flowers, figures of
animals, even parts of the human body, — mystic symbols, to be
deciphered only by the initiated. Ah! could I but have read them as
in a book, construing all their allegorical significance, how near
might I not have come to the distracting secret of this people!
Gazing upon them, my thought flew back a thousand years, and my
feeble, foolish conjectures, like butterflies at sea, were lost in
mists of old myth.

Not
that Buddhism has escaped the guessing and conceits of a multitude of
writers, most trustworthy of whom are the early Christian Fathers,
who, to the end that they might arouse the attention of the sleeping
nations, yielded a reluctant, but impartial and graceful, tribute to
the long-forgotten creeds of Chaldea, Phenicia, Assyria, and Egypt.
Nevertheless, they would never have appealed to the doctrine of
Buddha as being most like to Christianity in its rejection of the
claims of race, had they not found in its simple ritual another and a
stronger bond of brotherhood. Like Christianity, too, it was a
religion catholic and apostolic, for the truth of which many faithful
witnesses had laid down their lives. It was, besides, the creed of an
ancient race; and the mystery that shrouded it had a charm to pique
the vanity even of self-sufficient Greeks, and stir up curiosity even
in Roman arrogance and indifference. The doctrines of Buddha were
eminently fitted to elucidate the doctrines of Christ, and therefore
worthy to engage the interest of Christian writers; accordingly,
among the earliest of these mention is made of the Buddha or Phthah,
though there were as yet few or none to appreciate all the religious
significance of his teachings. Terebinthus declared there was
"nothing in the pagan world to be compared with his (Buddha's)
P'hra-ti-moksha, or Code of Discipline, which in some respects
resembled the rules that governed the lives of the monks of
Christendom; Marco Polo says of Buddha, "Si fuisset Christianus,
fuisset apud Deum maximus factus"; and later, Malcolm, the
devoted missionary, said of his doctrine, "In almost every
respect it seems to be the best religion which man has ever
invented." Mark the "invented" of the wary Christian.

But
errors, that in time crept in, corrupted the pure doctrine, and
disciples, ignorant or stupid, perverted its meaning and intent, and
blind or treacherous guides led the simple astray, till at last the
true and plain philosophy of Buddha became entangled with the
Egyptian mythology.

Over
the portal on the eastern facade of the Watt P'hra Kau is a
bass-relief representing the Last Judgment, in which are figures of a
devil with a pig's head dragging the wicked to hell, and an angel
weighing mankind in a pair of scales. Now we know that in the
mythology of ancient Egypt the Pig was the emblem of the Evil Spirit,
and this bass-relief of the Siamese watt could hardly fail to remind
the Egyptologist of kindred compositions in old sculptures wherein
the good and bad deeds of the dead are weighed by Anubis (the Siamese
Anuman or Hanuman), and the souls of the wicked carried off by a pig.

In
the city of Arsinœ in Upper Egypt (formerly Crocodilopolis, now
Medinet-el-Fayum), the crocodile is worshipped; and a sacred
crocodile, kept in a pond, is perfectly tame and familiar with the
priests. He is called Suchus, and they feed him with meat and corn
and wine, the contributions of strangers. One of the Egyptian
divinities, apparently that to whom the beast was consecrated, is
invariably pictured with the head of a crocodile; and in hieroglyphic
inscriptions is represented by that animal with the tail turned under
the body. A similar figure is common in the temples of Siam; and a
sacred crocodile, kept in a pond in the manner of the ancient
Egyptians, is fed by Siamese priests, at whose call it comes to the
surface to receive the rice, fruit, and wine that are brought to it
daily.

The
Beetle, an insect peculiarly sacred to the Buddhists, was the
Egyptian sign of Phthah, the Father of Gods; and in the hieroglyphics
it stands for the name of that deity, whose head is either surmounted
by a beetle, or is itself in the form of a beetle. Elsewhere in the
hieroglyphics, where it does not represent Buddha, it evidently
appears as the symbol of generation or reproduction, the meaning most
anciently attached to it; whence Dr. Young, in his "Hieroglyphical
Researches," inferred its relation to Buddha. Mrs. Hamilton
Gray, in her work on the Sepulchres of Etruria, observes: "As
scarabæi existed long before we had any account of idols, I do not
doubt that they were originally the invention of some really devout
mind; and they speak to us in strong language of the danger of making
material symbols of immaterial things. First, the symbol came to be
trusted in, instead of the being of whom it was the sign. Then came
the bodily conception and manifestation of that being, or his
attributes, in the form of idols. Next, the representation of all
that belongs to spirits, good and bad. And finally, the deification
of every imagination of the heart of man, — a written and
accredited system of polytheism, and a monstrous and hydra-headed
idolatry."

Such
is the religious history of the scarabæus, a creature that so early
attracted the notice of man by its ingenious and industrious habits,
that it was selected by him to symbolize the Creator; and cutting
stones to represent it,4 he wore them in token of his
belief in a creator of all things, and in recognition of the Divine
Presence, probably attaching to them at first no more mysterious
import or virtue. There is sound reason for believing that in this
form the symbol existed before Abraham, and that its fundamental
signification of creation or generation was gradually overbuilt with
arbitrary speculations and fantastic notions. In theory it
degenerated into a crude egoism, a vaunting and hyper-stoic hostility
to nature, which, though intellectually godless, was not without that
universal instinct for divinity which, by countless ways, seeks with
an ever-present and importunate longing for the one sublimated and
eternal source from which it sprang.

Through
twenty-five million six hundred thousand Asongkhies, or
metempsychoses, — according to the overpowering computation of his
priests, — did Buddha struggle to attain the divine omniscience of
Niphan, by virtue of which he remembers every form he ever entered,
and beholds with the clear eyes of a god the endless diversities of
transmigration in the animal, human, and angelic worlds, throughout
the spaceless, timeless, numberless universe of visible and invisible
life. According to Heraclides, Pythagoras used to say of himself,
that he remembered "not only all the men, but all the animals
and all the plants, his soul had passed through." That
Pythagoras believed and taught the doctrine of transmigration may
hardly be doubted, but that he originated it is very questionable.
Herodotus intimates that both Orpheus and Pythagoras derived it from
the Egyptians, but propounded it as their own, without
acknowledgment.

Nearly
every male inhabitant of Siam enters the priesthood at least once in
his lifetime. Instead of the more vexatious and scandalous forms of
divorce, the party aggrieved may become a priest or a nun, and thus
the matrimonial bond is at once dissolved; and with this advantage,
that after three or four months of probation they may be reconciled
and reunited, to live together in the world again.

Chow
Khoon Sâh, or "His Lordship the Lake," whose functions in
the Watt P'hra Këau I have described, was the High-Priest of Siam,
and in high favor with his Majesty. He had taken holy orders with the
double motive of devoting himself to the study of Sanskrit
literature, and of escaping the fate, that otherwise awaited him, of
becoming the mere thrall of his more fortunate cousin, the king. In
the palace it was whispered that he and the late queen consort had
been tenderly attached to each other, but that the lady's parents,
for prudential considerations, discountenanced the match; "and
so," on the eve of her betrothal to his Majesty, her lover had
sought seclusion and consolation in a Buddhist monastery. However
that may be, it is certain that the king and the high-priest were now
fast friends. The latter entertained great respect for his reverend
cousin, whose title ("The Lake") described justly, as well
as poetically, the graceful serenity and repose of his demeanor.

Chow
Khoon Sâh lived at some distance from the palace, at the Watt
Brahmanee Waid. As the friendship between the cousins ripened, his
Majesty considered that it would be well for him to have the
contemplative student, prudent adviser, and able reasoner nearer to
him. With this idea, and for a surprise to one to whom all surprises
had long since become but vanities and vexations of spirit, he caused
to be erected, about forty yards from the Grand Palace, on the
eastern side of the Meinam, a temple which he named
Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang, or "The King caused me to be built";
and at the same time, as an appendage to the temple, a monastery in
mediæval style, — the workmanship in both structures being most
substantial and elaborate.

The
sculptures and carvings on the pillars and facades — half-fabulous,
half-historical figures, conveying ingenious allegories of the
triumph of virtue over the passions — constituted a singular
tribute to the exemplary fame of the high-priest. The grounds were
planted with trees and shrubs, and the walks gravelled, thus inviting
the contemplative recluse to tranquil, soothing strolls. These
grounds were accessible by four gates, the principal one facing the
east, and a private portal opening on the canal.

The
laying of the foundation of the temple and monastery of
Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang was the occasion of extraordinary festivities,
consisting of theatrical spectacles and performances, a carnival of
dancing, mass around every corner-stone, banquets to priests, and
distributions of clothing, food, and money to the poor. The king
presided every morning and evening under a silken canopy; and even
those favorites of the harem who were admitted to the royal
confidence were provided with tents, whence they could witness the
shows, and participate in the rejoicings in the midst of which the
good work went on.

After
the several services of mass had been performed, and the
corner-stones consecrated by the pouring on of oil and water,5
seven tall lamps were lighted to burn above them seven days and
nights, and seventy priests in groups of seven, forming a perfect
circle, prayed continually, holding in their hands the mystic web of
seven threads, that weird circlet of life and death.

Then
the youngest and fairest virgins of the land brought offerings of
corn and wine, milk, honey, and flowers, and poured them on the
consecrated stones. And after that, they brought pottery of all
kinds, — vases, urns, ewers, goglets, bowls, cups, and dishes, —
and, flinging them into the foundations, united with zeal and
rejoicing in the "meritorious" work of pounding them into
fine dust; and while the instruments of music and the voices of the
male and female singers of the court kept time to the measured crash
and thud of the wooden clubs in those young and tender hands, the
king cast into the foundation coins and ingots of gold and silver.

"Do
you understand the word 'charity,' or maitri, as your apostle St.
Paul explains it in the thirteenth chapter of his First Epistle to
the Corinthians?" said his Majesty to me one morning, when he
had been discussing the religion of Sakyamuni, the Buddha.

"I
believe I do, your Majesty," was my reply.

"Then,
tell me, what does St. Paul really mean, to what custom does he
allude, when he says, 'Even if I give my body to be burned, and have
not charity, it profiteth me nothing'?"

"Custom!"
said I. "I do not know of any custom. The giving of the
body to be burned is by him esteemed the highest act of devotion, the
purest sacrifice man can make for man."

"You
have said well. It is the highest act of devotion that can be made,
or performed, by man for man, — that giving of his body to be
burned. But if it is done from a spirit of opposition, for the sake
of fame, or popular applause, or for any other such motive, is it
still to be regarded as the highest act of sacrifice?"

"That
is just what St. Paul means: the motive consecrates the deed."

"But
all men are not fortified with the self-control which should fit them
to be great exemplars; and of the many who have appeared in that
character, if strict inquiry were made, their virtue would be found
to proceed from any other than the true and pure spirit. Sometimes it
is indolence, sometimes restlessness, sometimes vanity impatient for
its gratification, and rushing to assume the part of humility for the
purpose of self-delusion."

"Now,"
said the King, taking several of his long strides in the vestibule of
his library, and declaiming with his habitual emphasis, "St
Paul, in this chapter, evidently and strongly applies the Buddhist's
word maitri, or maikree, as pronounced by some Sanskrit
scholars; and explains it through the Buddhist's custom of giving the
body to be burned, which was practised centuries before the Christian
era, and is found unchanged in parts of China, Ceylon, and Siam to
this day. The giving of the body to be burned has ever been
considered by devout Buddhists the most exalted act of
self-abnegation.

"To
give all one's goods to feed the poor is common in this country, with
princes and people, — who often keep back nothing (not even one
cowree, the thousandth part of a cent) to provide for
themselves a handful of rice. But then they stand in no fear of
starvation; for death by hunger is unknown where Buddhism is preached
and practised.

"I
know a man, of royal parentage, and once possessed of untold riches.
In his youth he felt such pity for the poor, the old, the sick, and
such as were troubled and sorrowful, that he became melancholy, and
after spending several years in the continual relief of the needy and
helpless, he, in a moment, gave all his goods, — in a word, ALL, —
to feed the poor.' This man has never heard of St. Paul or his
writings; but he knows, and tries to comprehend in its fulness, the
Buddhist word maitri.

"At
thirty he became a priest. For five years he had toiled as a
gardener; for that was the occupation he preferred, because in the
pursuit of it he acquired much useful knowledge of the medicinal
properties of plants, and so became a ready physician to those who
could not pay for their healing. But he could not rest content with
so imperfect a life, while the way to perfect knowledge of
excellence, truth, and charity remained open to him; so he became a
priest.

"This
happened sixty-five years ago. Now he is ninety-five years old; and,
I fear, has not yet found the truth and excellence he has been in
search of so long. But I know no greater man than he. He is great in
the Christian sense, — loving, pitiful, forbearing, pure.

"Once,
when he was a gardener, he was robbed of his few poor tools by one
whom he had befriended in many ways. Some time after that, the king
met him, and inquired of his necessities. He said he needed tools for
his gardening. A great abundance of such implements was sent to him;
and immediately he shared them with his neighbors, taking care to
send the most and best to the man who had robbed him.

"Of
the little that remained to him, he gave freely to all who lacked.
Not his own, hut another's wants, were his sole argument in asking or
bestowing. Now, he is great in the Buddhist sense also, — not
loving life nor fearing death, desiring nothing the world can give,
beyond the peace of a beatified spirit This man — who is now the
High-Priest of Siam — would, without so much as a thought of
shrinking, give his body, alive or dead, to be burned, if so he might
obtain one glimpse of eternal truth, or save one soul from death or
sorrow."

More
than eighteen months after the First King of Siam had entertained me
with this essentially Buddhistic argument, and its simple and
impressive illustration, a party of pages hurried me away with them,
just as the setting sun was trailing his last long, lingering shadows
through the porches of the palace. His Majesty required my presence;
and his Majesty's commands were absolute and instant "Find and
fetch!" No delay was to be thought of, no question answered, no
explanation afforded, no excuse entertained. So with resignation I
followed my guides, who led the way to the monastery of Watt
Rajah-Bah-dit-Sang. But having some experience of the moods and
humors of his Majesty, my mind was not wholly free from uneasiness.
Generally, such impetuous summoning foreboded an interview the
reverse of agreeable.

The
sun had set in glory below the red horizon when I entered the
extensive range of monastic buildings that adjoin the, temple. Wide
tracts of waving corn and avenues of oleanders screened from view the
distant city, with its pagodas and palaces. The air was fresh and
balmy, and seemed to sigh plaintively among the betel and cocoa palms
that skirt the monastery.

The
pages left me seated on a stone step, and ran to announce my presence
to the king. Long after the moon had come out clear and cool, and I
had begun to wonder where all this would end, a young man, robed in
pure white, and bearing in one hand a small lighted taper and a lily
in the other, beckoned me to enter, and follow him; and as we
traversed the long, low passages that separate the cells of the
priests, the weird sound of voices, chanting the hymns of the
Buddhist liturgy, fell upon my ear. The darkness, the loneliness, the
measured monotone, distant and dreamy, all was most romantic and
exciting, even to a matter-of-fact English woman like myself.

As
the page approached the threshold of one of the cells, he whispered
to me, in a voice full of entreaty, to put off my shoes; at the same
time prostrating himself with a movement and expression of the most
abject humility before the door, where he remained, without changing
his posture. I stooped involuntarily, and scanned curiously,
anxiously, the scene within the cell. There sat the king; and at a
sign from him I presently entered, and sat down beside him.

On
a rude pallet, about six and a half feet long, and not more than
three feet wide, and with a bare block of wood for a pillow, lay a
dying priest. A simple garment of faded yellow covered his person;
his hands were folded on his breast; his head was bald, and the few
blanched hairs that might have remained to fringe his sunken temples
had been carefully shorn, — his eyebrows, too, were closely shaven;
his feet were bare and exposed; his eyes were fixed, not in the
vacant stare of death, but with solemn contemplation or scrutiny,
upward. No sign of disquiet was there, no external suggestion of pain
or trouble; I was at once startled and puzzled. Was he dying, or
acting?

In
the attitude of his person, in the expression of his countenance, I
beheld sublime reverence, repose, absorption. He seemed to be
communing with some spiritual presence.

My
entrance and approach made no change in him. At his right side was a
dim taper in a gold candlestick; on the left a dainty golden vase,
filled with white lilies, freshly gathered: these were offerings from
the king. One of the lilies had been laid on his breast, and
contrasted touchingly with the dingy, faded yellow of his robe. Just
over the region of the heart lay a coil of unspun cotton thread,
which, being divided into seventy-seven filaments, was distributed to
the hands of the priests, who, closely seated, quite filled the cell,
so that none could have moved without difficulty. Before each priest
were a lighted taper and a lily, symbols of faith and purity. From
time to time one or other of that solemn company raised his voice,
and chanted strangely; and all the choir responded in unison. These
were the words, as they were afterward translated for me by the king.

As
the sound of the prayer fell on his ear, a flickering smile lit up
the pale, sallow countenance of the dying man with a visible mild
radiance, as though the charity and humility of his nature, in
departing, left the light of their loveliness there. The absorbing
rapture of that look, which seemed to overtake the invisible, was
almost too holy to gaze upon. Riches, station, honors, kindred, he
had resigned them all, more than half a century since, in his love
for the poor and his longing after truth. Here was none of the
wavering or vagueness or incoherence of a wandering, delirious death.
He was going to his clear, eternal calm. With a smile of perfect
peace he said: "To your Majesty I commend the poor; and this
that remains of me I give to be burned." And that, his last
gift, was indeed his all.

I
can imagine no spectacle more worthy to excite a compassionate
emotion, to impart an abiding impression of reverence, than the
tranquil dying of that good old "pagan." Gradually his
breathing became more laborious, and presently, turning with a great
effort toward the king, he said, Chan cha pi dauni! — "I
will go now!" Instantly the priests joined in a loud psalm and
chant, "P'hra Arahang sâng-Khâng sârâ pang gâch' châ mi!"
(Thou Sacred One, I take refuge in thee.) A few minutes more, and the
spirit of the High-Priest of Siam had calmly breathed itself away.
The eyes were open and fixed; the hands still clasped; the expression
sweetly content. My heart and eyes were full of tears, yet I was
comforted. By what hope? I know not, for I dared not question it.

On
the afternoon of the next day I was again summoned by his Majesty to
witness the burning of that body.

It
was carried to the cemetery Watt Sah Kâte; and there men, hired to
do such dreadful offices upon the dead, cut off all the flesh and
flung it to the hungry dogs that haunt that monstrous garbage-field
of Buddhism. The bones, and all that remained upon them, were
thoroughly burned; and the ashes, carefully gathered in an earthen
pot, were scattered in the little gardens of wretches too poor to buy
manure. All that was left now of the venerable devotee was the
remembrance of a look.

"This,"
said the King, as I turned away sickened and sorrowful, "is to
give one's body to be burned. This is what your St. Paul had in his
mind, — this custom of our Buddhist ancestors, this complete
self-abnegation in life and in death, — when he said, ' Even if I
give my body to be burned, and have not charity [maitrî], it
profiteth me nothing."

PRIESTS AT BREAKFAST.

COMMON
MAXIMS OF THE PRIESTS OF SIAM.

Glory
not in thyself, but rather in thy neighbor.

Dig
not the earth, which is the source of life and the mother of all.

Cause
no tree to die.

Kill
no beast, nor insect, not even the smallest ant or fly. Eat nothing
between meals.

Regard
not singers, dancers, nor players on instruments. Use no perfume but
sweetness of thoughts.

Neither
sit nor sleep in high places.

Be
lowly in thy heart, that thou mayst be lowly in thy act.

Hoard
neither silver nor gold.

Entertain
not thy thoughts with worldly things. Do no work but the work of
charity and truth. Give not flowers unto women, but rather prayers.
Contract no friendship with the hope of gain.